


Their War, Our World

by chiixil_84



Series: Chronicles of War [1]
Category: Transformers, Transformers: Age of Extinction - Fandom, Transformers: Dark of the Moon - Fandom, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen - Fandom, Transformers: The Last Knight
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Cannon Divergent, Fluff, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-04-17 20:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14197158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiixil_84/pseuds/chiixil_84
Summary: An ancient race of sentient autonomous organisms have made Earth their last stand for a battle that has raged since the dawn of time, and no amount of diversions or plans to displace the apocalypse will deny its ugly head from rearing itself to this young species.Bonds will be made, promises will be broken, and lives will be taken throughout this war, for there can be no victory without sacrifice.





	1. One Small Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a voyage to the stars in Apollo to a director's musings of what he's keeping in the government's basement, the 1960s are a time of setting up the story for what's to come -- and answer some questions people have only been given hints to.

Today was a day to be remembered. 

Hundreds of people stood in the Florida heat, clothing and hair clinging to sticky bodies as they waited with growing anticipation for the morning’s event. News crews pointed their cameras toward the Saturn V rocket across the waterway, waiting for the final few minutes to pass until the monster would rise from its platform, hardly two miles away from its watchers, and take the voyage the world held its breath to witness. 

Young and old had come from all over on this July morning to congregate here on the day that mankind would be propelled into the future, hope bubbling just at the edge of the crowd’s chattering as speakers droned on with the countdown. 

She, however, could barely stand to watch. 

From her position near the back of the crowd, she had just enough of a view of the rocket to comfortably see its launch but remain close enough to the parking lot for the quick exit she so dearly wished to make. This day was both wondrous and terrifying, for a multitude of reasons, and every single one sent a shiver down her spine in ways she never thought would, especially with a species so young. 

She remembered her father’s incredulous chuckle as he had asked her, “How dangerous could they be?” whilst walking towards the ship that would take him on what would be his last voyage. 

To  _this_  planet. 

A planet he never returned from. 

That, surely, was an indication of what Earth had in store for her kind, all of those eons ago. Why had she not listened to that warning, especially being faced with what lay before her now? 

One reason that she was so afraid was of the possibility – no, the  _certainty –_ that this mission would bring back to the Earth something equally terrible for its inhabitants that it had been for her father. 

 _And_ , she had as an afterthought, feeling a twinge of guilt,  _the secrets the moon hides that this planet is not yet prepared for._  

Though she knew not the reason why there were so many Cybertronians on the satellite of this water-based planet, the woman knew, similarly to these humans, that war and blood were the only things these creatures sought. 

The second: she knew this would not be the only space mission that would be entertained today. 

She, for an absolute certainty, knew that  _that_  mission would uncover entities beyond this solar system’s tiny influence that would lead those horrors  _directly_  to this world, risking everything its surface desperately clung to. 

While the American and Russian governments fought over sovereignty of this pathetically lifeless moon,  _rather than focus jointly on the ones just kissing Saturn’s gravity that held much more practical uses_ , the second mission would be flinging a man-made yet alien ship towards the star of this system. 

Specifically, a wormhole that had erupted just a hair’s length away from Mercury’s atmosphere. 

Wormholes were vastly under-researched, even by a race as primordial as hers, and only brought one of two outcomes, the former being your atoms stretching across time and space itself by a deceptively safe rip in the fabric of the universe and ceasing to exist altogether and the latter being flung into a corner of the universe you would see only on radiation graphs. 

Both of these missions filled her with an unquenchable sense of dread, leaving her with the feeling that she would feel this way for a very, very long time after they concluded. 

The crowd tore her from her thoughts as they began to chant along with the speakers’ final 30-second countdown, the excitement peaking as the readying engines from the Saturn V reverberated throughout the coastline. The initial firing sequence sent a shockwave throughout the area that shook trees and rippled the once-calm waterway with a fervor only a natural disaster could bring, the hot air and smoke spewing from the 36-story vehicle as if the earth had burst open and brought Armageddon with it. 

 _Perhaps it had,_  she thought, quietly staring at the behemoth as it violently shook in its constraints, ice falling off of its body while the ignition vibrated the earth and sky. The throng around her cheered even as their screams were drowned out by the monster’s bellowing, this terrifying feat of human progression demanding to be released. 

As the eruption poured from its engines, the man-made catastrophe shook once more before taking a step toward the  _Great Out There_ this young species wished so desperately to explore, powering its way against gravity toward its destined goal. 

Taking this as her moment to leave, she silently slipped from the still-celebrating crowd and headed back toward the parking lot, her head low while her thoughts ran rampant once more. 

Within a few days, she knew that the  _Apollo 11_  crew would be on the moon with cameras to capture photographs and footage of the barren rock high above their heads, the men on its surface bounding through the zero-gravity environment with only a few inches of material between them and the isolation of space. Samples would be taken, experiences in the void of space would soak into their tiny fleshy consciences, and they would allow the scientific instruments to work their magic before returning home in a capsule hardly larger than a water closet. 

Though she did not fully understand what the American’s mission was, the woman knew the government’s official excuse was to follow the rallying cry of their late-president Kennedy to push into the next frontier, braving the loneliness and impossibilities of space to explore the meteor-pocketed celestial neighbor to gain better understanding of it and the Earth. 

A façade, was all it had been to those not in the know. 

Over the last few centuries, there had been an increase of meteors falling from the sky that would devastate small villages in fire, ruin countrysides from debri and immense radiation, or harmlessly crash into the ocean, leaving some people to believe these meteors meant something more. In many cases, these chunks of rock were simply that: rocks. 

But, she knew better. 

Her kind often used meteor-like craft to move singular entities or small teams across vast distances for a scouting mission, without the dedication that a full-on exploratory measure would take. 

Centuries,  _millennia_  even, would be spent traversing space to reach this planet from Cybertron, their homeworld, but  _what_  would cause them to come here in such increasingly  _terrifying numbers_ , unless–  

“Leaving so soon?” came a sudden shout, catching and directing her attention from herself momentarily. “The celebrations have only just begun!” 

“You know I’m not any good with crowds,” the woman called back, slowly bee-lining her way towards the caller to meet him across the field. “Especially not in this weather.” 

Nodding gallantly, the man stopped just shy of an arm’s length from her and leaned into his cane, squinting against the sunshine as he stated, “Of course, my lady.” He waved a hand nonchalantly to the rocket as it continued to thrust upward, the smoke washing over the rivers and beaches like an ominous fog. “An achievement such as this much bring you such disdain.” 

Narrowing her eyes, the woman’s dark eyes glistened as she directed, “Edmund, you  _are_ here for a reason, yes?” 

A tight-lipped smile crossed the man’s aging face as he hummed, turning his gaze towards her, “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Pausing for a moment, he looked back to the rocket and continued, his words sickeningly charismatic, “How rude of me, my lady–shall we speak of this matter over dinner? There is quite a lot to cover. You know, Cogman just redid the kitchen, and I’ve found that he makes the  _best_ –” 

“Or talk fast for me now,” she interjected coolly, blinking slowly as he met her sharp gaze once more. “My time is limited.” 

“But so  _vastly_ more, isn’t it?” the man breathed, his retort as quiet as if he were saying a prayer. His eyes searched hers, studiousness that held more than just a pursuit of knowledge twinkling in his sky-colored eyes. 

Sighing as she collected herself, the woman asked once more, keeping her tone even, “Ser Burton.  _Please_ , no more games. Why is it that you are  _here?_ ” 

“Both launches have been successful,” Edmund replied simply, a more genuine smile gracing his face despite the clear restraint he now held in his tone. “While everyone looks here, the other occurs in a quiet, unchecked sky.” 

“This isn’t exactly news,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. “There must be more you offer me, if  _Cogman_  is willing to cook over it?” 

His smile faded slightly, as did his restraint. “Wembley isn’t doing so well.” 

“Neither is the Director, from what I understand,” she stated, sighing. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb, frustrated that this conversation had to happen  _right now_ , on top of everything else. 

Shifting his feet awkwardly, Edmund formulated eventually, the worry lines at the corners of his eyes showing his age, “Currently, Wembley is the only candidate that is healthy enough to continue the search for the tomb. Many of the others have had their lines... ended, or have so little relation that they are non-viable options for what is to come.” 

“So, you want me to find more.” It was a statement, accusatory.  _Biting_. 

He looked conflicted for a moment before nodding, clearing his throat. The steward remained silent under her intense gaze, for once refusing to utter a witty – or  _any_  – reply. 

Maybe she  _was_ being a tad harsh. 

Running a hand through her black hair, she looked away before murmuring, her tone turning frustrated, “The scout has left the planet, for how long I have no clue. It’s been nearly thirty years now.” Shifting her weight, the woman added, “Even if I were to find another  _plaything_  for your little fraternity, it could be decades before I find one that could be of any use to search for Merlin’s staff.” Her gaze turned back up to him sharply, her voice growing tighter. “And with these new candidates, candidates with ancestry you haven’t fully explored, we would be working in a territory uncharted. It will take time, time that we do not have to waste.” 

Another slight shrug from Edmund as he mused, his expression soft, “Maybe we’ll have that dinner after all, Khronos.” 

Dark eyes trailing from the man to the sky above them, the woman replied sadly, “Perhaps you’re right, Edmund.” He hummed in response, his eyes trained on her. “Time  _does_  move so much slower for me.” 

With a chuckle, he held out his hand to her like both a question and a promise, his eyes bright in the early morning sun. 

The woman tenderly took it and began walking with him from the field to his vehicle, the silence between them smothering. 

The end was nigh, but a good vintage shared over a meal with the only human she remotely tolerated would at least distract her attention long enough to pretend not to care about what was to come. 

Or, so she hoped.

**|0|0|0|**

Indeed, the Director was not doing well. 

Though the  _Ghost 1_ ’s launch went as perfectly as it could have, he had the sinking feeling it would not be as smooth of a return. 

After all, the world had lost contact with  _Apollo 11_ ’s crew on their walk on the dark side of the moon in the same instance that his team had gone through the wormhole by the far side of the Sun; a fitting symbolism to the twin missions, after all, but ominous all the same. 

He wondered if NASA even knew of this agency’s mission here, or if it even mattered if they did. The moon was barren, holding nothing in variety or major scientific discovery, and he knew it would yield nothing more than a moment history would see as an  _accomplishment_. 

He wanted to spit on the word; the real discovery would take place outside of this galaxy and silently be ignored by history in lieu of the moon landing – the  _safer_ option, the  _more realistic_ one. 

There would be no victory marches or remembrances, no plaques or chapters in books for their sacrifices made: just this team, a few dozen people, would ever see the significance of this mission’s run. 

But, even facing the facts that this agency was keeping a 30-foot alien robot in a giant freezer and that they had built a machine that would traverse the stars based off of this creature, that wasn’t nearly at the top of his greatest stresses, or even remotely the reason why he wasn’t doing well. 

It was his son. 

Seymour had found out, by means that the Director still couldn’t fathom, about these aliens, and, like any eccentric 12-year-old, wanted to know more. 

The Director knew that the boy would find out more information in the same way he had before, and, as a father and government employee, he was at his wit’s end as to how to keep his son on a  _very_  short leash with this discovery of his. 

Hell, he didn’t even know how his child had found out in the first place; it wasn’t as if he had these files readily available to read, such as TIME or the Sunday paper, so the Director feared the child might have overheard a conversation at one point or another and just now found the courage to ask. 

Where did he go wrong? What could he have done so differently? 

What could he do to protect Seymour from being  _assassinated_  as so many others had been? 

Running a hand through his thinning beard, the old man turned his gaze from his files to the pictures on his desk. One was of Seymour and his mother, while the other was a time-aged image of the Artifact that he owed his very life to, its eerie form beautiful yet haunting to stare at. 

Similar to Pandora’s box, the Director feared what the Cube’s unforetold knowledge would bring to Earth. 

Would it be the newest technology to help propel the human race forward, or would the governments of the world squabble over it like children and destroy their home to acquire it? 

So far, the Cube had been mostly unresponsive to human touch – however, circuit boards, watches, anything slightly technological in nature would go haywire and either burn like a leaf under a microscope or explode like firecrackers. 

It had led to newer research over the last few decades, which led to the historic event that  _Ghost 1_ offered Sector 7, and the world. 

His gaze lingering over the image of the Artifact for a moment longer, he forced himself to look away and collect himself before falling too deeply into that rabbit hole. Once composed, he looked back to the image of his family, his heart aching in a slightly different but still similar way. 

It had been Easter Sunday of ’67, just shortly before Seymour’s 10th birthday. The director’s wife and child were dressed in white outfits, resting on a brightly colored picnic blanket with various plates surrounding them that held copious amounts of food that shouldn’t have been for just the two of them. 

He should have been there – he  _knew_  he should have; this picture was taken by his brother at a time when he had been to Egypt in an attempt to acquire some archaeological findings from Cairo’s police, before shortly traveling to London to gather some 4th-century records, then to Alaska for some deeds to particular spaces in the frozen, barren North. 

All for historical research, he told his family.  _What else_ _would it have been for?_  

Sighing, the old man decided that today he’d go home to talk with the boy. 

He  _had_ to explain to his son that none of it was true; it was the only choice he had. He  _had_ to convince Seymour that life existed in far more extreme cases than what this planet held, but aliens were  _not_  a lifeform that existed in that grand scheme. 

No one, not even his superiors, knew of the boy’s findings, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

He  _had_  to, for Seymour’s sake. 

The child would believe him when the Director would reinforce this message with what the rest of the world knew. 

Why wouldn’t he? Seymour had no physical or factual evidence, or in the very least an argument to counter this thought process. 

Even if his father knew differently, Seymour would have to believe the Director, his  _father_ , before whatever “evidence” the child claimed he held. 

He was missing his son growing up to prepare the United States for the war that was inevitably coming, and knew all of these sacrifices – all of these  _lies_  – were going to be the price for that victory. 

It had to be, for Seymour’s future. 

He had no other logical choice.

**|0|0|0|**

Coming home, the old man let himself think this would be an easy conversation, and he held that belief until halfway through their talk. 

“But I  _do_  have proof,” Seymour told his father with a calm purpose that almost scared the old man. 

“Let’s see it, then,” the director stated, still holding onto his confidence despite his son’s matter-of-fact tone. “I want to believe, too, son. Please, help me understand.” 

Slipping from his father’s side, the child dug through his dresser before coming back with a thick mailing envelope, its edges worn. Handing it over, the child said sheepishly, his eyes downcast, “It had my name on it, so I thought it was a present from you.” 

Looking it over, indeed it had his son’s name on it; the postage stated it had been delivered over two years ago, from– 

 _Oh, no._  

Tearing open the package with shaking hands, the old man tried keeping his rising panic down while he read through the envelope’s contents. 

“When I saw it was from London, I thought–” Seymour hesitated as he registered his father’s panic, then lowered his excitement and continued more softly, “I thought you got me something from one of the museums, like an ancient scroll or something.” When his father didn’t reply to that, Seymour tried once more, looking guilty, “It looked important. I just missed you.” 

Indeed, there were things in this envelope that even he as the director of Sector 7 did not know about, but knew from what he could recognize that this information was critical. 

And absolutely, utterly  _dangerous_. 

“Have you shown anyone else this stuff, kiddo?” his father asked slowly, unable to tear his eyes off of the information before him.  

“Do you believe me now, Dad?” the child asked timidly, shifting his weight as he stood before his father. 

Looking at Seymour, the director answered, a slight smile on his lips, “This is all pretty cool stuff; I can see why you believe in this.” He held up the pages to his child, asking again, “So, this is only between us, right?” 

Seymour nodded, eyes wide but smiling. “Just us, Dad.” 

He pulled the child into his arms tightly, hugging him with sincerity and protectiveness. “Thank you for showing me this, Seymour.” 

“I can keep it, then?” 

Rubbing the 12-year-old’s back, his father replied, “If I’m being honest, this is quite the collection; do you mind if I take these to work, just for a bit? Maybe it’ll help my research. There’s  _so much_  in these, I bet I could do a lot with this. You can get it back when I’ve made my own copies, if you don’t mind.” 

Seymour’s eyes lit up instantly. “Does that mean my name will be next to yours? I want to be a part of it!” 

Forcing out a slight laugh, his father replied, “Of course you can, Seymour. You found this, after all; your discovery means it’s your finding.” 

Beaming, Seymour hugged his father again, much more tightly this time. 

“However, you have to  _promise_  me this will stay between us for a while longer,” the Director said, holding his son closer. “We can share it later, when we are able to figure out how to tell everyone. Not everyone will take this so easily, and the news might scare some people.” 

“Oh,” Seymour said, his face falling slightly. “I don’t want it to scare anyone.” 

Patting the child’s back slightly, the director soothed, “Hey, hey, don’t worry about it right now. We’ll figure it out, someday. Don’t get too discouraged, alright? Do we have a deal?” 

“Deal!” 

Releasing his child, he said, “Now, let me go put this in my office. Why don’t you go help your mother with dinner?” 

“Sure thing, Dad,” Seymour stated, smiling as he ran downstairs to the kitchen. 

Looking at the volume’s-worth of information in his hands, the director knew this was something he couldn’t hold off for very long, especially if these people were now targeting his family. 

He’d been avoiding a confrontation with the Knights for quite some time, believing their knowledge equivalent to old wives' tales and fantasy. 

Now, they’ve made it personal. 

“Damn Folgans,” he cursed, sighing as he left his son’s room to head toward his study. “They don’t know who they’re dealing with.” 

He would  _make_  them know the power he held as Sector 7’s leading researcher, and make them sorry they tried interfering for the last time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reworked this 9/21/18. Wasn't quite happy with how many jumps it made with the vagueness. I hope this clears some things up.
> 
> However, unless you've read Ghosts of Yesterday or watched all five of the movies some of this may be a bit spoilery.


	2. Treacherous Endeavors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is a fickle thing, especially when monsters are involved.
> 
> Monsters are not always demons, yet demons are all monsters -- but, not all demons are born that way.
> 
> They are often made through brimstone and trauma, though the burn sometimes takes years to settle in before one notices the flesh being torched.

Seventeen gentlemen stood in a room that could comfortably hold seven, five of whom were able to sit at a table meant only for late-night card games. No artwork adorned the off-grey walls, the air smelling more like an old library index box than an office in the Pentagon, thick clouds of tension emanating from the men’s cigarettes and body language.

Two of the sitting men wore deep navy uniforms, their medals and ranks proudly displayed across their chests, one nameplate reading ALDRIN and the other COLLINS; another of those sitting wore a simple blazer, a soft cream with brown stitch work, this man looking much more relaxed yet no less professional. The remaining two men wore simple suits, their ties long forgotten in the heat of the mid-July weather.

Despite the beautiful summer’s day outside, a storm of violent proportions brewed in the room as the silence built up.

“So,” one of the sitting suits asked, adjusting the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, “do you gentlemen have any questions for Johnson or me?”

Sitting up a little straighter, Aldrin cleared his throat as he said, “You’ve told us about beating the Russians to retrieve some space rocks, but that still doesn’t explain  _him_ , Agent Smith.” He pointed to the man wearing the blazer, this third guest staring at the agents as if he hadn’t been called out. “If this is calls for  _military_  intervention, why do we have someone out of uniform leading this operation?”

The suited men shared a look before Smith replied, “He has some of the best records for flights in the last twenty years that we’ve ever seen.”

“Not to mention,” Johnson added, leaning back in his chair, “Mr. Armstrong is the engineer you’d kill to have on a mission like this.”

“Why?” Aldrin pressed, his eyes flickering between the two NASA agents.

With the agents taking too long of a moment to answer, the blazer-wearing individual interjected, answering his co-pilot coolly, “This is a great honor either way, Buzz. Being the first on the moon?” Armstrong shook his head, crossing his arms slowly as he turned to the guests sitting beside him. “Besides, they told us we have to sign some, what–” He looked to the agents, raising an eyebrow incredulously. “– _paperwork_ , you called it? Before we get any mission details.”

The glasses-wearing agent seemed to deflate somewhat as his co-worker chimed in, nodding, “Russians and all that. You understand, right?” He held up a pen with his forefinger and thumb, shaking it slightly as his eyes flickered between the three gentlemen.

Collins added, gently bumping his elbow into Aldrin with a slight grin on his face, “Easily the greatest mission one could take, and, given our current political atmosphere, I wouldn’t mind getting clear of all that, even if I’m still going to be sitting in the module.”

With a huff, the co-pilot stretched out his hand and grumbled, “Give me the damn pen.”

“Easier than nuclear warfare,” the agents agreed, nodding eerily in sync.

Both agents handed the three men a pen of their own, along with a single piece of paper each.

Incredulously, Armstrong asked, “Is this all?”

“Where do you want to start, gentlemen?” Agent Smith asked, his glasses glittering in the dim room. “Concerns over a simple contract, or with details of the most important mission of mankind?”

“How this is about ‘mankind’?” Aldrin stood up, reading from the paper with venom dripping from his words, “ _Thou hereby redact any and all rights given to thee by the sovereign government of the United States, under threat of execution for treason_  – what the Hell is this?”

Shaking his head, Armstrong said, his face twisted, “This isn’t what we were invited here for.” He looked at the gentlemen sitting across from himself, pressing, “Why such lengths to go through a program that won’t happen for another decade, if not later? What’s the  _secrecy_  for?”

Looking over his glasses, Smith replied coolly, “If you have any further reservations, you can leave right now, and face no penalties. Your careers can go on, your lives will continue, and this conversation will have never happened.”

“We’ll continue on down the line,” Johnson added.

“Until there is no line,” Armstrong concluded, sitting back in his chair.

“However,” Smith continued, ignoring the interjection as he tapped his fingers against the tabletop slowly, “if you continue to waste our time here, there will be words.”

“ _Words_ _?_  From some basement nerds in badly tailored suits?” With a sharp laugh, Aldrin barked, “In your  _dreams_ we’d ever give up our Constitutional rights for some  _moon rocks._  You must be insane to think that we would–”

Scribbling interrupted Aldrin’s words, cutting through the sudden silence as if it had been fired from a cannon.

Everyone’s eyes turned to Collins, dozens of eyes as big as saucers as they watched him flip his paper over to the suits at the end of the table.

“I didn’t come here to barter,” the man muttered bitterly, throwing a dark look to the other guests. “I’ve been inducted into the  _Gemini_  program, and  _Apollo_  is the only way up from there.” He sat back against his chair, crossing his arms against his chest tightly as he stared at the NASA agents. “I'd give anything to get off this planet again.”

Sitting down, Johnson took the paper and tenderly folded it, looking to the two pilots with an intense stare. “Well?” he asked after a moment. “What do you say, gentlemen?”

** |0|0|0| **

They thought they could do it.

The excavation had become a much larger project than the team had originally intended upon, each having pulled more resources into this single site than the money or manpower their collective could afford in its entirety. As archaeologists and businessmen, in the beginning, they had agreed that their heptagon would be a size well-equipped for whatever this venture would bring, but the rope they hung this proposition upon slowly tightened around them as this wondrous discovery dissolved like the glacier they had found it in.

In short, they were hemorrhaging the longer this endeavor continued with them alone.

So, they decided to look outward.

Before the Seven could cast their gazes upon the unknowing world for their next partner, however, a candidate fell into their lap almost as quickly as they’d found the Artifact.

The proprietor had approached one of the Seven with information he had not been able to confirm nor deny within his colleagues’ extensions, but knew that this surprising information related to the Seven’s discovery in the Nevadan desert – and took it upon himself to bring the woman to the other six for consideration.

On site, with a promise of compromise hanging on his lips to this woman.

Of course, the men’s reactions had been less than understanding, ranging from skepticism to unadulterated rage at the thought of offering the  _woman_  any place in their world-shattering fraternity.

“She will only be a hindrance, Morehouse,” Whitting had snarled, the older man more akin to the burning of a forge than the tenderness of flesh and bone. “We must continue looking forward; we cannot afford to waste any more time!”

Alongside the railroad-based businessman, the metallurgist Brewster, politician Crowther, and former Army lieutenant Lawson held similar sentiments.

“The government is pushing for answers as to what we’re doing out here,” Crowther added, his voice low but steady. “I can only tell my colleagues in Washington so much before they become tired of my excuses. They still do not wish to move the creature from the Arctic, pushing us to make a decision before this glacier melts entirely.”

The men grumbled at this, each holding their own incredulous mutterings of the government’s involvement.

“It will take another thousand years before our glaciers melt,” the lieutenant stated. “What does the United States gain when given full entitlements of this creature?”

None had an answer to this, nor any wished to guess.

After a moment of reflection, Morehouse pleaded, “Gentlemen, whom but we know the extent of the creature and its capabilities? Of the dimensions of this monstrous artifact?“” He swung his arm in the woman’s direction, his dark eyes meeting each of those he called brothers. “She recited, in  _extreme_ detail, what we have come to conclusions on – and still promises that there is more.”

“Of  _course,_  there is more,” Whitting snorted behind his mustache, his puffy red face similar to the red desert cliff they stood beside. “There will always  _be_  more when vague words cloud the minds of educated men.” He pointed down to the valley below, where water had pooled from the melting ancient glacier to create an almost serene oasis around their find. “We have all the information we would ever need,  _right there_ _!_ , and don’t need  _anyone_  else to reach for it. We already have Hoover breathing down our necks; who next will come for our discovery? Her pettiness as she looks to the media when she grows bored of playing in a man’s world?”

A soft-spoken Brewster added, his face twisted with concerned as he rounded to Morehouse, “Perhaps you simply read too far into her words? She does sound foreign, after all.”

Their paleontologist suddenly spoke, shifting his weight from one foot to another nervously, “But how else can we explain this?“” Westfield’s eyes shifted from one businessman to the other, swallowing a lump in his throat as the other six men’s gazes turned onto him. “Woman or otherwise, Morehouse is right: we were foolish to think only we knew the truth, when the truth has since shown us otherwise.”

“Egypt’s hieroglyphs, Iraq’s pottery, Aboriginal paintings,” Morehouse named off immediately, looking at his peers. “We know the world holds more than we know, and it was only a matter of time before someone got to another artifact before we did.”

“We have some of the best connections in the country,” Lawson stated with a deep-set frown pulling onto his already sunken face, cutting through the other man’s pleas. “Brewster and Whitting are correct in assuming her motives are more monetary than revolutionary.”

“Money,” Clairmont murmured, kicking the rocks at his feet, “can only get one so far. Her knowledge, however, is far more an impactful aspect of her character than any amount of coin will ever be.”

A tense silence fell over them as they stood in a four-against-three vote, hardly out of earshot of the silent-as-ever woman.

The businessman eventually spoke once more, lowering his voice’s volume as he pitched one last time, “We have nothing but our money to lose if we are wrong, gentlemen; if what she has to offer will impact us in any way to protect our world from these giants, we must take that materialistic risk for the sake of our future.”

The Seven walked toward the woman, this  _Prima_ , their shoulders set proudly as they tentatively began their meeting.

Time would only tell if they had chosen right.

** |0|0|0| **

Unfortunately, time had run out.

The lantern’s kerosene had long been exhausted, leaving him deep within the glacier and no way to escape its icy walls.

Archibald had used his pick to attempt to climb out the same way he had tumbled in, attempted to run his fingers against the glassy walls to find any crevice he may have missed to find another way up, and, eventually, sat around in wait for his crewmembers to retrieve him.

It eventually seemed like they would not be coming to his rescue.

Not only did he not know what was occurring on the surface above his prison, he had no idea how far he had fallen.

He didn’t even know  _what_  he had discovered, looking back on it.

Its eyes bore into his skin the moment the fire of his then-lit lantern illuminated its face, casting a devilish shiver along the man of science’s spine; metal of an unknown origin covered the skeletal creature, the edges of its form coming to razor-sharp points that splintered the ice around it; and, most peculiar of all, the ice walls were completely devoid of any (immediate) sediment or rippling effects, seen only when boiling water was quickly ( _very quickly_ ) frozen.

Archibald did not make himself out to be a God-fearing man, but in this cavern, he prayed to whichever deity would listen to him for protection and deliverance from this Hell. Whether this creature was of God or otherwise, he did not wish to die here beside it.

Sniffling, the man let off a weak sigh as he rubbed the tip of his nose, hardly able to move. Clutched in the palm of the giant, its outstretched hand was his only source of grounding in the slippery, unknown cavern of ice surrounding him.

The man knew he shouldn’t have wandered off by himself, but  _damn_  his curiosity.

_Of course, this is the way I go,_  Archibald thought with another sigh, leaning his head more into the metal grooving, allowing the darkness to overtake him.  _I_ _’_ _m going to freeze to death in this blasted cave, and I can_ _’_ _t do a damned thing about it._

He could only guess that his lantern had been out for an hour at the most, knowing that he had had at least three days’ worth of kerosene originally in its reservoir. He couldn’t believe three days had transpired in this fortress beneath the Arctic waves, but knew no other explanation for why he remained here and not free and aloft above this prison.

By now, he expected his crew to have cut themselves free of this glacier and set a course back to their port in Alaska, knowing that trip would be much faster and less resource-consuming than attempting to circle the Arctic and complete their scientific mission, and that he would be the only reported casualty in this endeavor. With the data they had collected of the Arctic and the weather, oceanic, and coastal patterns, the mission would still technically be considered a success.

Why else would they stay? Having only one casualty in an expedition such as this was a God-send, even if it were unfortunate for himself.

_At least I will be remembered for something,_  he thought blithely, the cold wracking through him with a harsh vengeance.  _Even if it means I_ _’_ _d have frozen to death long before anyone knows it._

Clenching his teeth, not even having the energy left to utter a curse at himself, Archibald attempted to relax against the hand he knew as his only refuge in this cave, fearing he was minutes away from finally succumbing to the cold.

_Another adventure,_  he thought, trying to calm his rapid heart rate and rising panic,  _that I must take alone._

Deep within the enveloping darkness, Archibald suddenly saw the pinpoint of a red light, its light hardly larger than a match’s.

Unable to move, the man could only stare at it, fighting back wracks of shivering as he tried to make sense of what he was witnessing. And, on top of that, a low thrumming rumbled in his ears unlike anything he’d ever heard before.

Was he going mad as he died? What was this  _noise_ , this unearthly growling?

The noise echoed throughout the cavern as the light remained its pinprick size, the sound similar to the distant rumble of thunder rolling across a plateau.

It was... comforting, to say in the least, even if he  _was_ going mad. The dark had never been a friend of Archibald’s, and he was somewhat happy to see and hear  _anything_  before he completely froze.

But after what was probably only a few minutes, he realized it wasn’t his brain hallucinating.

No, he could feel his  _fingers wiggling._

Panic set once again in Archibald as he quickly ( _very quickly_ ) threw away his acceptance of death and began to fumble with his gloves, breathing the last of his warmth into his hands.

What a fool he was to allow something as simple as the  _cold_  get to him, he chastised himself halfheartedly, blinking in time with the thrumming’s crescendos to keep himself awake. What honest, reasonable scientist would ever regard him in any favorable light if they knew he had rolled over and given up?

Especially in the palm of...  _this creature_ , as if he were some common pill bug?

No. He would not do this to himself, or, in the very least, the crew that had risked their lives to come to the Arctic circle for a cause the men – they  _all_  – believed in.

Even if he would die shortly before escaping this prison, at least it would be in his attempt to regain his humanity.

The light grew the longer he stared at it, forcing him to rub the crystalizing tears from his eyes as it grew to be too much for him – and yet he stared, having no other force in this universe willing to remain down there with him.

If a deity would not bring him from this Hell, he would bring himself out, no matter the cost.

The warmth slowly returned, just enough for him to uncurl himself from the grooved giant’s palm, but his energy remained sapped, his body refusing to heed his command to stand.

Sitting is better than laying, Archibald supposed.

The light had grown, only to the size of a candle, but gave him enough to make out the shape of a few things in front of him. He could see the tips of his boots, the lantern long-forgotten just beyond his reach, and the shining reflection of the red light on the cavern walls.

And, the claws attached to the giant’s fingertips.

For a moment, he could have  _sworn_  the hand was curled, not extended.

_It has been days,_  Archibald reasoned, shaking his head.  _Perhaps I am truly going mad; amnesia is known in hypothermia sufferers..._

The low thunder turned into a sudden, metallic snarl, the reverberation running up the man’s spine.

Falling forward into the ice in reaction to the noise, Archibald cursed every way a sensible, educated man dared not to, the fear too great for him to mind his manners. He struggled to sit on his hands and knees, his energy still too low for him to do much of anything, attempting to catch his breath as his mind came down from its fearful high.

Now he knew why no supernatural power wished to join him in this Hell: it  _was_ Hell.

What was this creature, and why was it  _speaking?_

Or, attempting to, he supposed – he’d never heard this dialect before, but could make out some cadence to the noise, though it did seem very strained, as if it hadn’t spoken in ages.

He could understand, at least, as his throat burned from the first words he’d spoken in days; how long would a creature have to be in a prison as this to speak in this way that it sounded like the devil himself?

For a moment, Archibald allowed the fear to dissipate as he questioned what sat before him – as both a scientific discovery and with overwhelming curiosity – and was almost immediately reminded of its fiendish nature when the light grew brighter to illuminate the creature’s face once more, showing off the devilish features that were familiar, yet...

Alien.

Another shiver ran up his spine as he turned to look at the iceman, leaning into a rock to fully take in the half-exposed face, realizing the light came from what he could only guess were its eyes.

It doused the cavern in a blood red sheen, its unnatural light bouncing off the ice surfaces.

Archibald was both terrified and awed at this entity, unsure of what to make of this experience.

In a bumbling fashion, he took out a scrap of paper and pencil from his jacket and began making notes, praying that his handwriting would be legible at a later date (if he would  _make_ it to a later date).

He took notes on his encounter with the entity, down to the thoughts he had moments before he thought he would expire – after all, all great discoveries occurred with the risk of death at hand. He took as many little sketches of the creature as he could see and remember of its awful face, daring only to stare into its beady eyes as long as he needed to in order to gather the details of its structures; he did not wish to forget this too soon.

Even if he doubted he ever  _would_.

The rumbling continued throughout Archibald’s scribbling, rising and falling as if it were eternally whispering to him, and the man tried tuning it out with his own raspy babbling.

The scientist talked about his wife and children, the work on Arctic shelf movements and weather patterns he had studied the last twenty years, the green of the fields his father had lived and died working, the great heat of the sun far above their heads...

Anything and everything to keep himself sane, if only a while longer.

Just until he would escape this Hell.

Even if he died trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 9/21/18. It was a bit wonky in comparison to the first chapter, so I edited it a bit.
> 
> Time goes backward, and for good reason: to look towards the future, one must look back, though hindsight is often 20-20 and twice as painful.

**Author's Note:**

> Due to plenty of problems in my personal life, I have not only revived my Transformers story but I hope to keep up with it better than I have in the past.
> 
> Thank you for your time and patience~


End file.
